


a falcon in the dive

by flibbityflob



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, French Revolution, it's a scarlet pimpernel au, there will be GAYS there will be PINING and there will be SWORD FIGHTING
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 21:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21435211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flibbityflob/pseuds/flibbityflob
Summary: Paris, 1793. The Reign of Terror kills without hesitation and Sir Ingrid Galatea, seen by much of the world as nothing more than an wealthy fool without much in regards to common sense, cannot stand by and let it continue any more. She will do what she must, even if it means distancing herself from her beloved wife, Dorothea Arnault. As the Scarlet Pimpernel, she saves whichever nobles she can, with the desperate desire to save the heir to the throne, Princess Sothis, at the urging of her guardian, Byleth, all whilst pursued by the fearsome Citoyenne Hresvlgr, following her every move, trying to capture her, and recapture the affections of her former lover, Dorothea.or, a scarlet pimpernel au.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Kudos: 7





	a falcon in the dive

The Revolution was in full swing, blood running through the streets of Paris, the heads of aristocrats falling from their heads on the daily. It was a massacre, thought the well dressed woman, walking alone through the streets. The winter air bit cruelly at her face, and it was only the intent of returning to her house before the sun set that kept her from staring at the pools of blood for too long. How many of those men and women had she known, had she danced with, as a younger woman? How many of those had truly been traitors, truly betrayed their homeland? With every step she took, every head she saw, her resolve to her cause strengthened. She only thanked God that her tall frame, her broad shoulders and piercing gaze, were all hidden under the layers of clothing one required for a Parisian winter. Nobody would piece together who she was, what she was there for. In all her years of life, she’d never seen cruelty like this. The revolution had started with noble ideas, she could say that with the certainty in her heart, but a revolution that left corpses in its wake was not one she could support. Closing the door behind her, her butler taking her cloak and hat, she ran her hand through her hair and sighed gently. It would be a long evening, of the theatre, of socialising amongst what remained of the elite, and those trying to destroy them, of counting the days until her return to England. To Dimitri, His Highness, to Sylvain, to Felix, and to a land where she didn’t fear the streets would soon turn to violence once more.

By the time she left, the sun had set and the cold had come in, even more bitter than that afternoon. Her casual, informal clothes had been abandoned for an outfit more suited to the richest woman in England, enjoying a night at the theatre. She shivered slightly as she stepped into the carriage, tipped her hat slightly at the driver and tried to find solace in the warmth of her gloves and her cloak, failing quite utterly as the carriage took her across Paris. She’d barely spoken a word that day, she realised, as she sat in silence. As with every day, she’d wandered the streets of Paris, watching the executions as they happened, making careful note of route and plan, of the routines and the guards. She’d forced herself to watch the first few executions. After a while, her stomach didn’t turn in shock and horror and revulsion. This was her duty, the one she’d follow until she had no need of it, or until she died. 

The carriage drew to a halt outside the theatre, and she nodded once more at the driver, murmuring a soft word of thanks. The tension was apparent in the air the second she walked in, handing her hat and cloak to a waiting attendant. No matter how far removed the assorted people here were safe from Madame Guillotine for the moment, they knew that any moment could be their end. At any moment, the revolution could burst through their door and take them to their end. She didn’t blame a single one of them for their tension. She caught a glimpse of Duke Ferdinand Aeigr, talking quietly with Duke Hvering; she’d known them both when they were younger and had found them amiable, if slightly off putting. It was good to see a pair of friendly faces, even if she doubted they’d recognise her. She’d changed a great deal since her youth, grown taller and stronger, and, if the rumours about town were to believe, had become quite a fop, letting her wealth and connections do all the work for her. Perhaps she had. Perhaps over the years she’d become accustomed to walking into a room, smiling at all those around her, and not worrying about having to make connections and friends. When one’s dearest childhood friends were His Highness the King, and his two closest advisors, one was bound to be sought after. And, she supposed, it was easier to believe she was foppish and foolish, without a shred of brilliance in her brain, that her the wit and charm of her youth was nothing more than an act. It suited some of her aims, without doubt. 

She sat in the box, alone, which was a favour from an old friend, and waited. There were a great many things about England she preferred, but French theatre was a virtue that perhaps outclassed a great many things. It had certainly motivated her younger years spent in the country. She’d spent countless hours at theatres like this all across Paris, watching in rapt delight amongst the company of dear, dear friends. The lack of her friends by her side lessened the overall joy of being here. There was nobody to discuss philosophy with, nobody to whisper lewd comments in her ears about the leading ladies of the day, nobody with whom to discuss the merits and failings of the evening’s entertainment, and nobody with whom to pass the time before the show began. It was, therefore, some small mercy that she’d been delayed in arriving, leaving her a brief, if boring, fifteen minutes of occasionally checking her pocket watch. But her patience was rewarded the second the show began. With rapt applause, the curtain rose, revealing the theatre’s current star. She’d heard stories of this woman even back home, but seeing her in the flesh revealed a woman more astounding and beautiful than she’d expected. Dorothea Arnault, renowned for the beauty of her voice, matched only by the beauty and intensity of her dark brown eyes, ones that captured the whole room as she sang. She barely noticed the two hours fly by, and it was with the slightest hint of despair that she stood to leave the box. She’d been of two minds as to whether to attend the soiree that would follow this evening’s entertainment, she had been invited, of course, but she didn’t want to run the risk of running into someone who might have recognised her. But now, oh how she yearned to be there. 

“The home of the Marquis.” She said, clipped and rushed, to her poor driver, who’d expected very much to be going home to a warm dinner, such had been the custom of the last two weeks in Paris, but she didn’t care in that moment. The driver took her at speed, and she somehow succeeded in her desperate attempt to keep herself from shouting commands at him. If she’d been driving the carriage, she would certainly be at the Marquis’ house in a flash, but her driver erred on the side of caution. It would not do well to inadvertently kill the King’s childhood friend, even if he could sense rage coming off of her regardless. She dismissed him with the same curt, clipped tone, and he wondered to himself if this was how all nobles behaved, or if he’d just had utterly rotten luck. 

“Your Ladyship.” One of the doormen smiled at her, bowing deeply, and once more taking her hat and cloak from her, whilst the other motioned the way to lounge. The Marquis was not known for extravagant events, but he was known for inviting the most fascinating members of society into his home, and he’d told her how the star of the stage had been a frequent guest at them. He greeted her with a warm smile as she entered the room, the look of an old friend seeing the face of someone he hadn’t in quite a while, and shook her hand, his warm grip familiar and comforting.

“It’s good to see you again, Marquis.”

“I feel much the same. Come, come, you’re leaving Paris soon, I’ve heard. I’d like to introduce you to our shining jewel.” He said, his warm eyes meeting hers, utter fondness and affection in them. She followed on after him, taking in the assorted members gathered here. A few she recognised, but many she didn’t, the most striking of which a young woman, her hair as white as snow, dressed in a black outfit that hardly fitted the cheery mood of the gathering, staring at her with sharp intensity, as if trying to see through her skin.

“Citoyenne Hresvelg, the chief agent of the Committee of Public Safety.”

“Why is she here then, old friend?”

“They’re keeping eyes on me either which way. I thought it prudent to at least treat them with a degree of kindness and honour, in the hopes they might do the same to me some day.”

“I can’t foresee much success in that, and I can’t see her bringing much livelihood to the conversation, either.”

“Perhaps not, but she’s interesting company regardless. A brilliant mind.” He said, his smile as warm and kind as ever as he led her over to the side of the room, where the brilliant singer from that evening stood, her dark eyes even more beautiful in person.

“My dear Marquis,” she began, delighted at his presence, her smile warm and affectionate, if perhaps hiding something, though she couldn’t quite sense what in that moment, “it’s lovely to see you again. And with such handsome company too, you do treat me.”

“My darling Dorothea, you know I cannot help but do so. This is a dear old friend of mine from England-”

“Ingrid. Sir Ingrid Galatea. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Arnault.” Ingrid said, soft and sturdy, before taking the hand Dorothea had extended before her and kissing it reverently.

“A pleasure. Say, Sir Galatea, why not share a glass with me and tell me all about your homeland. I’ve never crossed the channel before.”

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is based off a combination of the book and the musical, with a preference towards the musical, as i know it far better. i've never written anything like this before, and it's deeply self indulgent, and i'm also incredibly busy at school, so i can't promise prompt updates, apologies in advance
> 
> come talk to me on twitter tho! im @brandlgalatea and im always jazzed to talk to whoever!


End file.
